


Three Soul Strings

by Cuptivate



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - After College/University, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence, Dwarf & Hobbit Cultural Differences, Erebor Reclaimed, F/M, Goldsickness, Hobbit Culture & Customs, Major character death - Freeform, Sauron - Freeform, The One Ring - Freeform, Top Dwalin, sorry - Freeform, the Company feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:47:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24907096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cuptivate/pseuds/Cuptivate
Summary: Most people in Arda don’t know much about the Hobbits of the Shire. History has largely overlooked them as they live in peace and quiet in their blessed green land.Bilbo Baggins knew well how precious home and hearth were, which is why she agreed to follow thirteen dwarves on their mad quest.It was good Thorin Oakenshield and his Company took the opportunity to learn all there was to know about the strange little burglar in all the months they travelled together. Or did they?
Relationships: Dwalin/Bilbo Baggins, Dwalin/fem. Bilbo Baggins
Comments: 31
Kudos: 239





	Three Soul Strings

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah … um … sorry?

Bilbo lifted her hand to tentatively touch her throat. It hurt something fierce now, where Thorin’s heavy hand had grabbed her, nearly throttled her to death; his strong fingers and heavy rings leaving marks on her tender skin.

And yet, that pain was nothing.

She sighed and sank down on a rock at the edge of the tent encampment that had sprung up at the end of the battle. Absentmindedly she dabbed the piece of rag she got from Bofur all those months ago on the cuts on her arms and legs, shuddering at the stinging pain.

And yet, that pain was nothing.

Nothing compared to the pain in her heart.

A couple of Dain’s soldier’s stormed past, they couldn’t see her but their looks were dark, full of contempt and anger. They spoke in their language and Bilbo knew when they spoke of Sharbrugu instead of Zantulbasu that they spoke of her. It was not a friendly way to speak about a Hobbit, Bilbo had learned that well. Bilbo knew those looks, too. It was all she got from the Company in those first weeks of the quest.

Distrust, disgust, loathing even. All because she was only a Hobbit, a soft creature without visible scars, who valued food and the comforts of home more than honour and riches.

It was surprising that they never really cared about finding out more about Hobbits. Bilbo was naturally curious, she would have loved to find out more about Dwarrow, and she did try, early on. But not only was she shut down pretty quickly, the dwarves of the Company also never asked any questions in return. Clearly, they were different. Or rather indifferent. She was nothing to them but the end to a means, and that only because Gandalf had insisted on her coming. Gandalf, who in all his wisdom was almost as guilty in his ignorance as the Company. Because he did not know what he did to Bilbo by having her come along. She hadn’t bothered telling him at Bag End. Maybe she was naive to think that there would be a time during the quest where she could tell him. Could tell them. How it worked for Hobbits. That there was more to them than food and furry feet and that ‘comforts of home’ was actually one of the three strings of their souls that anchored them to this world. The only one Bilbo had left, after her parents had perished in the Fell Winter: family, another string of a Hobbit’s soul that needed to be nourished for them to be complete, to be whole. That string of her soul had snapped very soon after she found herself all alone in Bag End.

Love was the third string of a Hobbit’s soul that was needed for them to stay alive. And love ... Well. Who would love a Hobbit that already was tethering at the edge of existence anyway? So nobody in the Shire did. They were all just waiting for her last soul string to snap, eventually.

But she couldn’t just give in like that. She couldn’t just roll over and fade. She wanted something first. Adventure. Travel. Companionship. All three things she would get when coming with the dwarves. Her Tookish side reared its head in excitement and determination, and so come she did.

It was not a week into their journey that she realized the companionship part wasn’t quite happening. Thorin hated her. The dwarves partially followed his leadership and partially couldn’t be bothered with her on their own accord. It made for long, dark, cold nights, where her heart twitched and jerked and _hurt_ and she could do no more than hope she’d actually make it to the Lonely Mountain before succumbing to the Green Lady’s embrace.

It only changed after the goblin tunnels, when first they thought her lost - or unfaithful, returning to Bag End despite her contract with them - and she wanted to explain then how important _home_ was for her, for any Hobbit. She chose her words badly, but good enough for them to suddenly warm towards her. And when she stood between Azog and Thorin, well ...

That’s when it really changed.

Bilbo smiled wistfully.

So warm they were then, so welcoming, caring even. And Dwalin ...

She swallowed, wincing as her throat throbbed with pain.

Well, it didn’t matter now. It didn’t matter now that her heart hurt even more, after she learned what it felt like to heal.

She dabbed at a particularly deep cut on her thigh, where the Mithril shirt did not cover her body and the wild swing of an orc’s crude sword got her as she was dashing past in her mad scramble to get to Ravenhill in time. Blood oozed from the wound, running down her leg and into the hair on her feet before seeping into the thin layer of snow on the ground, tinting it red. She lifted the rag away. She had washed it, numerous times, and to be honest, she was not sure why she kept the dreadful little thing Bofur had given her as ‘handkerchief’.

No, that was a lie. She knew why she kept it.

She kept it because she got little else over the years, and less still from her dwarves. So, silly as it was to hold on to Bofur’s _rag_ , she treasured it. Who would have thought, that after everything, after Beorn, after Mirkwood, Thranduil, Laketown, Smaug, the thrice cursed Arkenstone ... she treasured that rag.

And the daisy Dwalin gave her in Beorn’s garden.

When he ...

Bilbo squeezed her eyes shut, holding back the tears that suddenly welled up and pressed a hand to her chest, where her poor heart fluttered feebly.

It didn’t matter now. Nothing mattered anymore.

She felt hazy, and tired. No, not tired. Beyond exhaustion. She had given everything. And she was glad that is was enough.

Thorin lived. Fili lived. Kili lived.

_Dwalin_ lived.

It didn’t matter anymore what happened before. What happened in the mountain. After Smaug. And before the debacle with the Arkenstone. It didn’t matter that she had not been _enough_.

Not enough to free them from the clutches of the dragon sickness. Not enough to make Dwalin look at her once more with tenderness in his eyes instead of that dark, hazy look that didn’t recognize her, that glared at her with anger for disturbing him while he played with the gold, distracted him from stacking bejeweled daggers and shining armour around him and stroke them with his big, calloused hands that she _knew_ could be so gentle in their caress.

When he shoved her out of the way, not caring that she fell hard and scraped her knees and hands on the sharp edges of the various pieces of treasure the first silvery threads of the soul string that held her heart in this world with love frayed. She felt dizzy, then, and lay there, gasping for breath at the realization that his _rejection_ could be her death.

And then Oin shoved her out of the way when she asked him for his ointment to dab some on the scrapes, and Balin didn’t even lift his nose from the book he was reading when she asked him for help and Nori smile was dangerous and as sharp as the knives he juggled with and Bofur nurtured a sudden passion for gemstones, filling golden cups and bowls with gems the size of Bilbo’s priced tomatoes. Gloin only counted coins, but he did that without pause, muttering under his breath. Bombur hoarded gold and silver cutlery, one set more elaborately decorated than the next, his head filled with all the fancy dishes that could be eaten with them. Bifur had taken off most of his clothes and rolled around in the treasure like a pig in mud, making equally happy sounds. Of all the frightful oddness regarding the treasure his obsession was probably the most bizarre, Bilbo mused.

Even the young dwarves, Fili, Kili and sweet, sweet Ori were totally lost to the world in the end, although it did take them a little longer to totally succumb to the treasure’s pull.

And Thorin ...

He was unpredictable and frightening in his seething anger towards the Elves and the Men, and his _greed_. He did not see what he had become, he did not want to listen to reason, none of them did, but he least of all. Her newly formed family string began to pull taught at the strain it was under, ready to snap at any moment. Bilbo had known she was running out of time. But she could not, would not, stand by and let them kill themselves because of gold.

She could not. No matter what was going to happen to her.

She had to try to save them.

She saw it already in Thranduil’s tent though that it would not work; that elf was very different to Lord Elrond, he did not care for the dwarves, he did not care to see Erebor freed from a dragon, he was just as lost in his greed for some white gems as the dwarves were lost in the possessiveness of their treasure. And Bard was only too happy to follow the Mirkwood King’s lead. It didn’t matter that he was the only one with a real right to ask for a share of the treasure as he only wanted it for his people: the way he phrased and presented his demand: even Bilbo was reluctant to give him anything.

Diplomacy was no use.

Yet she could not stay with the Elves nor the Men. No matter what, her loyalty was with the dwarves. Her dwarves. So, she returned to the mountain. Telling the truth was her last desperate attempt to break through to them. But when Thorin grabbed her and she felt the anger radiating off him, off all of them, and when she caught Dwalin’s gaze, cold fury and murder in his eyes, she knew she had failed.

She had no home, no family, and no love. As soon as that profound knowledge sank into her very bones the last silvery threads of her soul’s strings snapped.

And when she climbed down the rope, her legs shaking and her breath coming in choked sobs, she almost tasted the sweet summer’s air and blessed peace of the Green Lady’s realm on her tongue. She would have been happy to lie down then, at the foot of the mountain, and let herself be embraced by Yavanna’s grace. But then the blasted battle happened, giving her a last burst of strength. She may have failed breaking her dwarves out of the gold sickness, but she could still save their lives.

She at least had to try. Even if she was little use to them otherwise.

She knew nothing of battles, but she knew that a snake could not use its venomous bite any longer if its head was chopped off. So when she spotted Azog on Ravenhill she slipped on her ring and made her way there, dodging the weapons of friend and foe alike, with more or less success. She had already arrived on Ravenhill when Thorin finally lead the Company from the mountain, rallying Dwarves, Elves and Men in the wake of their charge.

She watched the white orc looking North, searching the horizon as if he was waiting for something. Climbing up the tower she could see the army approaching from that direction and realized that Azog gave the order to set a trap for the Durins when they made their way up Ravenhill, on goats of all things. She did not want to be seen by them, did not want it to be her fate to die by their weapons, to die as the traitor Thorin has declared her to be.

So she kept her ring on and crept about on silent feet. It was not difficult to cut the strings to the signal flag posts and to cause havoc inside the tower, the only difficulty was to avoid getting hit by weapons in the enclosed space. She didn’t entirely succeed, as the state of her arms and legs showed.

With the trap sprung and Azog killing half his orcs in the tower himself in his rage, Bilbo only had to focus on dashing madly across the ice and just yelled at her dwarves, invisible as she was, that another army was approaching from North. Battle hardened as they were they reacted immediately, and her heart surged as they charged into the fray.

In the end she managed to kill Bolg before he got to Dwalin while Thorin and the boys took out Azog; and when the eagles arrived the battle was won. She heard them yelling for her, heard Dwalin’s voice bellowing her name, and suddenly she was afraid, so afraid.

She hobbled and slid down the slope and stayed far away from everyone, hiding in the shadows. Keeping her ring firmly on her finger she found that rock she sat on now, dabbing away on her wounds. 

Suddenly she saw the Company coming together outside the encampment. Bofur walked with a crutch and Dori had an arm in a sling, but otherwise they all escaped the perils of the battle unscathed. She felt so relieved. Seeing them alive the last bit of will to go on was now leaving her fast. They were too far away for her to hear what they said but she observed them gesturing and waving their arms and they swarmed out and seemed to be looking for something and she knew they were looking for her.

Fear gripped her again and she retreated, crawling back until she curled up into herself in a ditch under the charred remains of a long dead tree. She had strange dreams, of blue skies, green rolling hills and wildflowers in all colours of the rainbow. When she came to herself once more it was night. She couldn’t bear to wear the ring any longer, that ring that bleached the colour out of everything and made all the world grey and strange.

Crisp air hit her as soon as the ring was off her finger. A light dusting of snow was covering her and she shook herself to get it off. The movement made her gasp in pain.

Her head hurt. Thanks to a goblin who swung his club wildly as he barged towards the Durins and Dwalin. She managed to trip him, but she didn’t quite manage to dodge him.

Her ribs hurt, too.

Bilbo took a deep, slow breath, wincing. She couldn’t remember when her ribs got hurt but it was just so hard to focus on anything and it didn’t really matter anyway.

Her lips were dry and she was thirsty. She lifted a bit of snow in her hand and licked it. The taste reminded her of happy days and of building snowhobbits under the party tree and she smiled. But then it reminded her of the Fell Winter and she closed her eyes.

Her heart did not ache anymore.

That’s when she knew with dead, resigned certainty that she would not last much longer. Strangely, it did not bother her much. Why should it? Nobody would mourn her. Nobody would miss her. And wasn’t that the most painful thing about passing from one life to the next? To think of the ones that would be left behind? But nobody would even realize she was gone. There would be nobody to cry. There would be nobody to miss her.

Her eyes grew hazy.

She woke with a jolt, almost as if her mind had forgotten - for a moment - to breathe but then her body reminded it.

She looked up in the wise, knowing eyes of Beorn. The skinchanger’s expression was grave. “Little bunny,” he said mournfully, looking at the bloody puddle at her feet. “Little bunny, you need a healer.”

When his gaze wandered up again and their eyes locked she smiled sadly at him. “No healer can help me.” It hurt to whisper. It hurt to move her mouth. She felt her dry lips crack.

Beorn hummed, his wise old eyes sad, and she felt he understood. “What can I do, little bunny?”

Her eyes nearly fell shut she felt so ... done. “I would love to be in a place with flowers and grass,” she whispered, “I know summer’s long passed, but ... could you ... would you take me to your garden?”

He made a low, mournful keening sound, then she felt his arms picking her up gently. “Thank you,” she whispered.

…oO^Oo…

Dwalin couldn’t say how much time had passed since the end of battle. Since he had arrived on Ravenhill with Thorin and the lads to face Azog only to see cut signal flags flutter to the ground and hear utter chaos from inside the frozen ruin of the old tower. Orcs tumbled over stony edges and out from hollow windows, either dead or dying when their bodies shattered upon landing on the ground far below. Then roaring could be heard and a moment later they saw Azog wildly felling any of his own ilk who came within reach of his fist or the iron blade embedded in his stump. Gobsmacked, they watched.

Then _her_ voice, out of nowhere. She sounded breathless, and ... tired, and he wanted to say it right there and then, how sorry he was. How so terribly sorry he was for _everything_. That everything had gone terribly wrong, but that he was himself now again, and that he was so, so _sorry_. But he couldn’t see her and could do no more than call her name before those blithered goblins descended on them. They were not hard to fight, but they kept them busy.

And then Azog charged across the ice and Thorin and the lads were busy with him while Dwalin tried to keep their backs free. He was losing ground fast though, with the sheer numbers of first goblins and then orcs that charged at him. And then Bolg looked as if he wanted to get past him, to join the fray on the ice, and he doubled his efforts to block his path. Dwalin had been hard pressed, tiring quickly, until, suddenly, the big orc roared and a bloody stain spread over his abdomen, caused by a weapon Dwalin couldn’t see.

He’d rasped her name then. And although there was no response he _knew_ she was there when every orc that managed to get behind him fell.

Battle. There was no time to talk during battle, make plans, discuss things. It was act and react, hit, cut, slash, keep in the rhythm and stay on your feet. But even if there had been time Dwalin wasn’t sure she would have responded to his call. He didn’t know how she managed to avert his eyes, wondered briefly if it was some sort of Shire magic that helped her and whether it was the same magic that kept her undiscovered in the elvish dungeons. He briefly wondered why he hadn’t asked her. Before. And it occurred to him that he knew next to nothing about her.

_The tower was a trap but I sprung it. Beware of another army that is approaching this place from the North,_ her voice had said.

Mahal wept. How many times had she saved them? He’d lost count. The trolls. Azog and his wargs. Spiders. Elves. Smaug. The gold sickness. Elves and Men. Azog.

The whole quest had been one never ending nightmare.

When Azog’s head finally rolled over the ice and the eagles made quick end of the orcs Dwalin barely took time to catch his breath. He called her, begged her to reveal herself, roared her name, worried, so _worried_ that she got hurt and was lying somewhere, invisible and in pain. The fear gripped his heart so hard the _agony_ of it nearly drove him mad.

So he searched. Systematically. Behind every rock and in every crevice. Turned over every orc to make sure she wasn’t buried under one, grasping into thin air in the hope to find his fingers digging into something his eyes couldn’t see. And when he was done searching on Ravenhill he made his way down to the plain, doing the same. And when he made it to the swiftly erected tents he stayed only long enough to be sure his brother was well, and the rest of the Company, before heading out again and searching once more.

The others joined in without question. They all remembered, then, he surmised. They all remembered, just as he did, what had transpired while they were mad with gold sickness.

He remembered _everything_. Her tireless attempts to bring them back from it. How she came to hold his hand, how she hugged him, how she tugged on his beard to get him to look into her eyes. Endless days of effort and care, where she brought them water, carried bowls of thin stew after them, trying to tempt them to eat, all while getting thinner and thinner herself, looking more drawn by the day.

They did not deserve her.

They had never treated her well. The few weeks between the Carrock and their entry of Mirkwood meant nothing compared to how they treated her all the months before and all the weeks after.

Shame on them. Shame on them for all eternity.

They needed to find her. They needed to find her to have a chance to make it up to her. _He_ had to make it up to her. Dwalin almost stumbled over his feet, remembering the moment he had shoved her away from him in the treasury, had made her fall hard enough to draw blood on her hands and knees. For that alone he’d place his beard and his hair at her feet. But he also remembered the feeling of hatred and anger surging through him, that she dared to disrupt him sorting the _treasure_.

And worse. The murderous fury he felt when he looked at her, hanging over the ramparts, Thorin’s hand around her throat, his own hand gripping his knife. He was ready to kill her then. He would have. Without remorse, if not for the wizard.

He remembered her gaze on him. Her eyes, welling up with tears, so full of fear, so full of gut wrenching sadness and heartbreak.

No, a bit of hair and a lifetime of apologies would not be enough to make it up to her. But he would try. If only she let him. If only she let herself be found.

Glóin had drawn a crude map and assigned quadrants. And they went out and looked for her. And again. Searched through the dead orcs that were piled up in large heaps.

Dain had little understanding. “You’re fussing an awful lot about finding this Halfling. She’s a traitor. To be honest, it will be better if she’s not found; I’m not sure I can keep my warriors from delivering justice on the spot.”

Dwalin’s anger surged and he grabbed the Ironfoot by the scruff of his neck, yanking him close. “Any who dare touch her will find themselves ripped to pieces by mine own hands.”

Balin and Thorin teared him off and stayed back to sooth Dain’s temper while Dwalin stormed from the tent and resumed his search for his Hobbit.

His Hobbit.

He had no right, none whatsoever to call her that.

Not after everything. And even if-

“Dwalin?”

He looked up into Gandalf’s stormy eyes.

“What do you want?” Dwalin asked gruffly, “I’ve no time for you.”

The wizard didn’t care for his temper nor for worries but held out his staff to stop him in his steps, not in the least bit intimated by Dwalin’s growl and that he gripped his axe tightly, that he was not in the mood to be berated, beleaguered, criticised, yelled at, lambasted.

“Dwalin, where is Bilbo?” Gandalf’s voice was concerned, soft.

Dwalin blinked in surprise. Not what he had expected. “I’m looking for her,” he rasped after a moment, “We’re all looking for her.” They stared at each other for a moment. “She was on Ravenhill. She warned us about the other army. She killed Bolg. We’re trying to find her.”

The wizard withdrew his staff and straightened. “Ah, that’s where she went. I should have known.”

Dwalin just glared at him pointedly, too tired for this game.

The wizard seemed to get the gist and huffed. “She was in Dale with me when the battle commenced. But then I lost sight of her. I should have known she’d go where you are.” Gandalf looked him up and down. “I am glad you’re back to yourself, Dwalin, son of Fundin,” he told him, “Hobbit’s are ... gentle creatures, but fierce at the same time. She’s been badly hurt, granted, but you’ll be able to fix all the wrongdoings, I’m sure.”

Dwalin squeezed his eyes shut. “You are much more confident in this than I am,” he rasped. Dimly he was aware of several of the Company crowding around him.

“Hobbits are the forgiving kind,” Gandalf assured them, with that annoyingly unruffled smile of his. “Once you find her and she understands how sincere you all are in your remorse she’ll forgive you. And you can spend all your efforts on mending your relationship with her as well as on bringing Erebor back to life.” He nodded, looking rather pleased with himself.

They stared at him.

Fili shook his head. “She’s making it difficult to be found,” he stated with a worn expression, “We have been looking for her for a full day already.”

Dwalin shuddered. Had it been that long?

“Why does she not just come to us?” Ori asked, distress clear in his voice. “She must know we are sorry about what happened. Surely she knows us well enough for that?”

“We’ve done nothing but be right shits to her,” Nori spat, “If I was her I’d have run as far away from us as possible.” He met Dwalin’s eyes, setting his chin when the warrior paled. “We all know that were she Khazad she’d never forgive us.”

“But she’s not,” Balin interjected, trying to soothe, clasping his brother’s shoulder, “She is a Hobbit. And yes, we’ve done wrong by her, very wrong indeed, and we can only hope she’ll let us make up for it. But I am sure she will. If she’d given up on us completely she would not have gone to Ravenhill.” He pulled Dwalin’s forehead to his. “We’ll find her.”

Bofur shifted uncomfortably on his crutches. “But what if we won’t?” He shook his head, his features drawn and haunted, “It’s been a long time already. What if we won’t find her?”

They all shuffled their feet as Thorin stepped in their midst. “Then our mountain would have been won with too great a sacrifice. And we will never truly be able to enjoy it.” he said with great finality.

There was nothing else to add and as one they turned and continued their search. Dwalin kept turning over rocks and dead bodies. He could not give up hope, he could not. Hours passed and he ignored his hurting body and the fatigue that made his head spin.

A commotion had him lift his tired eyes. Kili yelled in the distance, the red-haired elf stood with him. Dwalin’s feet carried him there before he even realized he began moving. “What is it?” he rasped. “What have you found?” He stared at the bloody rag Kili held up - Bofur’s _handkerchief_ \- and at the dried-up bloody puddle on the snowy ground, in a little ditch next to a dead tree, with large bear prints all around it.

A minute later Dwalin found himself on a war goat and on the way to Beorn’s, the Company likewise, with Gandalf and the elf on horses. Whenever asked after this day, he had to admit that he had no memory of the journey. The She-elf lead them through Mirkwood. The goats didn’t’ like the place. Dwalin didn’t like the place. But he’d face Morgoth himself if it meant to find Bilbo.

Beorn stopped them at his gate, surrounded by his animals. His face was grim and his eyes were hard. “You are not welcome here, dwarves,” he growled, “Turn around and be on your way before you regret it.”

Dwalin stood his ground. “She is here then,” he said and almost sighed in relief. “I want to see her. I need to see her.” He pleaded and was ready to fall to his knees and beg.

The skinchanger’s eyes bore into him. “Why?” he asked. “Haven’t you done enough? Haven’t you all done enough?”

Gandalf stepped forward. “Well, there is no need for that, Master Beorn,” he said, his tone overly cordial, “Things have gone wrong, that is true, but these dwarves are here now to make them right-“

Beorn straightened. “Don’t speak to me, wizard. You are worse than them,” he fixed Gandalf with a dark look, “They at least have the excuse they only knew her for a little while. But you-“ He broke off and shook his head. “You have known Hobbits for a long time, and yet you never bothered to know anything _about_ them.”

Gandalf looked perplexed. “Whatever do you mean?”

Beorn grunted in disgust at his words. “What an ignorant fool you are, for one who claims to be so wise.” He looked over the dwarves, his eyes lingering on the elf for a moment. “You are all ignorant fools-“ He broke off again and looked over his shoulder, back to his house and his garden, as if listening for something. A dog near him let out a mournful sound. Without another glance at them Beorn turned and made to walk away.

“I just want to speak to her. Bare my soul to her,” Dwalin spoke quickly, sincerely, “I promise I will not disturb her peace.”

Beorn halted and looked at him strangely, almost with pity. “You are too late for that,” he said, “She is all but gone.”

Dwalin’s heart clenched at that. “No,” he whispered, shaking his head as if in denial. It was not possible. It could not be.

Beorn hesitated, looking at Dwalin intently, but then he sighed and opened his gate. “Come then,” he said, “Witness how the Lady Yavanna embraces those who’s souls have broken.”

Souls have broken? Dwalin didn’t know what it meant, didn’t care about Lady Yavanna’s embrace. All he wanted for his arms to embrace Bilbo.

He followed Beorn, they all did.

Beorn lead them across his land and past his house, into his garden and to the very end of it, where it met the wide sprawling meadow.

A few large rocks were scattered there, and Dwalin remembered them, because it was there where Bilbo sat next to him on the flat grass, surrounded on all sides by tall sunflowers, a tame garden and a vibrant wildflower patch. The sunflowers were well past their bloom now and hung on their tall stalks and the wildflowers were all but wilted and the high reeds dead in the last few days before winter truly would hit. The flat grass was no longer flat.

A mound was there.

A mound of earth and grass and overflowing with flowers, a sight so very wrong for this time of year.

Dwalin heard himself choking on a sob. “No,” he whispered and rushed to it.

He stared. Time stopped.

Then he fell to his knees.

Her small body rested on the ground, surrounded by soft, lush grass and flowers in all colours of the rainbow, which covered most of her still, unmoving frame. No, not _covered_ , grew over it and in and through it.

There was movement behind his back.

“You stand back,” Beorn growled.

“Let me get to her,” Gandalf insisted, obviously not willing to budge, “I can help her.”

“She is beyond help. And who do you think you are, offering her help now, when it was you who nearly killed her in the first place.”

The wizard sounded pained. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. I have ever only cared about her, just like I did about her parents-“

“If you truly cared you would have known,” Beorn interrupted harshly. “You took her away from the only home she had ever known, dragging her across half of Arda with them!” Beorn roared now, an angry, animalistic sound. Dwalin could imagine his eyes were flashing wild and bearlike for a moment, but he didn’t avert his gaze from the Hobbit lass. The soft, long stems of yellow flowers were entwined with her honey curls, and as Dwalin looked on a few more tendrils of green wound themselves over the edge of her forehead in a featherlight tough. Bilbo lay on her side, her feet and legs were almost completely covered by growing grass and thick flowers and even as Beorn spoke the grass kept growing up her thighs and over her back, inch by inch, blade by blade, each leaf slowly unfurling and hugging her still form.

He could hear Beorn take a deep breath to calm himself. “You will not touch her,” he growled resolutely, “Keep your distance. Let her sleep in peace.”

“What is happening?” Ori asked in the silence that followed, on his knees just in Dwalin’s periphery, and crying openly. “What is happening to her?”

“She’s ready for the Green Lady’s embrace, Master Dwarf,” Beorn responded, sounding so very sad, all fight gone out of him, “All her soul strings have snapped. There is nothing that holds her to life any longer. Soon she will leave this place that has brought her nothing but misery, sadness and pain, and she will enter Yavanna’s Green Fields. Hopefully, there she will find her peace.”

Dwalin’s gaze hungrily tried to take in every bit of her. She was so still. There was the barest intake of breath and only a subtle exhale.

His whole body began to shake.

Butterflies danced around her and settled down on her for the briefest of moments, as if caressing her, as if calming her with a last grace of life.

Guilt tugged relentlessly at his stomach.

Followed by a sudden surge of anger.

“You knew she was unwell?” His voice shook and he looked at Beorn. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Dwalin roared, feeling he would go mad with grief.

“Who am I to tell you?” Beorn barked in return, the bearlike growl back again. “And had you known, _dwarf_ , what would you have done differently?”

“Everything!” Dwalin heard himself bellow, “But I didn’t know! If I had known I would never-“

“What, Master Dwarf?” Beorn’s cut in harshly, “Never had given her a flower? Never had her wish and hope for a future with you? Never had fallen under the goldsickness? You are a grown dwarf. Of the sort that cannot be made to do anything unless he wants to do it. You gave her the flower because you _wanted_ to. You sought her out because you _wanted_ to. It is not my fault that in months of travelling together none of you ever bothered learning anything about Hobbits. You shunned her, showing no interest in her life or the culture of her peoples, so engrossed in your own destiny. If you had bothered to do more than make fun of what you considered mere Hobbit oddities, if any of you had bothered, you would have known.”

Dwalin’s eyes felt tight with pain and suddenly he had no energy to yell. Nor did wish to. Not in her presence. Not if this was to be- “Tell me,” Dwalin rasped instead, “Please. Explain it to me.”

Beorn sighed. “Hobbits are tethered to life by three strings of their soul. Family, a place to call home, and love. Those tethers strain and eventually break if a bond is lost or if it is cut because of rejection.”

“How do you know this?” Thorin asked, his voice defeated, “Did she tell you?”

“No. It is a knowledge passed through my people, knowledge almost forgotten. Hobbits lived here once, a long, long time ago, before they ventured West. No, she did not tell me. She never said a bad word about you either. But I saw when you were here last. I saw her struggles, for when you arrived there was nothing. And then I saw two of her soul’s strings grow. Tender saplings, vulnerable. Precious. That of family. And that of love.”

“Oh, Bilbo,” Dwalin’s voice was thick with tears. He had failed her.

There was silence, only interrupted by soft sobs. From Ori, or Bofur, any of the dwarves that had fallen onto their knees around and behind him, Dwalin couldn’t say.

“Tauriel,” Kili cried, distressed, “Tauriel is there nothing you can do?”

“No, melin,” the elf said softly, “There is nothing I can do. The Lady Yavanna’s hold on this place is strong. Don’t you feel it? All around us is infused with her presence.” Then the elf gasped. “She is here.” Her words were barely more than a referential whisper. Dwalin turned his head to look at her and saw her on her knees, her red head bowed. His gaze lifted. And his eyes widened.

In the flickering light of the late autumn sun he looked upon ancient eyes. Green eyes. The eyes of a tall, regal lady, wearing a gown that shimmered in all shades of green known under the sun and living flowers that grew in her wake with every sure step she took with her bare feet.

Their eyes met.

“Lady Yavanna,” Gandalf mumbled somewhere behind him.

Her eyes turned on the wizard and Dwalin could firmly hear him fold into himself and his grey robes.

“Mithrandir.” The Vala’s voice was full and melodic, and gentle, but there was a sharpness to how she said the name. “How terribly you have failed in this.” Her disappointment was tangible. “You have often called yourself the small stone that brings things into motion. But you forgot that avalanches much work the same way. Only they destroy all the small and soft things in their path. Much like you have done.” The Lady motioned at the still form of the Hobbit. “She is the truest, most humble creation of mine. No other heart has ever been so pure. So you are fortunate, that even as she passes, she saves Middle Earth. For your fight against Sauron the Deceiver has just been ended for good.”

“Mylady?” Gandalf sounded as baffled as Dwalin felt.

“Indeed. For Bilbo Baggins found the One Ring in the goblin tunnels.”

Gandalf gasped. So did Balin, Dwalin could recognize his brother’s choked intake of breath.

“The One Ring, forged by Sauron himself, made her invisible. Because of that trinket she managed to save her dwarves. Yes,” she said, looking directly at Dwalin, “Even in this moment that is how she thinks about you. _Her_ dwarves.” She looked at the Hobbit and made a small movement with her fingers and the flowers on Bilbo’s open hand retracted, leaving her fingers bare. Dwalin didn’t hesitate: he reached out and took her small hand into his. She was _warm_. Warm and soft, even though there was blood caked on her skin and under her broken and dirty fingernails, and callouses on her palms.

Dwalin bowed his head and felt fat tears drip down his face and wet his beard.

“But the ring is evil,” the lady spoke again, her tone full of sorrow, “And despite the good it let her do for you, it did sap what little strength she had left much faster than it would otherwise have happened.”

Dwalin lifted his heavy eyes and looked at the Lady.

“No,” she said softly, reading his mind, “There is no reversing the effect now.”

“What of the ring?” Gandalf asked and Dwalin wanted to smash in his skull. How could he care about the Mahal cursed thing now?

“It will cause no more harm. It is being destroyed as we speak,” the Lady said. And even as she said it a faint rumble crept through the very earth and shook the ground. A gust picked up out of nowhere, making autumn leaves and flower petals fly wildly, whipping up their hair and beards and blow dust in their eyes. It lasted no longer than a heartbeat or two. Then the wind died down just as sudden as it had come and the air became still once more.

“My husband took great pleasure in fulfilling this task.” Yavanna smiled fondly for a moment before her beautiful, ageless face turned serious again. “Sauron’s sorcery is no match for the great forges of Mahal. And without the One Ring the spirit of Sauron is no more. Now all that is left for the White Council and its allies to do is to rid the world of the remainder of his dark servants. Finally, Arda has a chance to be at peace. It could never happen without Bilbo Baggins. Only through the embrace of my magic could the ring leave Arda. Only because of Bilbo Baggins Middle Earth will be save.” Dwalin could feel her eyes on them once more. “But even though I am proud of my daughter, I will not forgive you. Thorin Oakenshield, your pride and arrogance almost was your downfall, and with it you nearly dragged all your kin down with you. Know this: it is only because I love my husband and because I feel sorrow for all the hardships his children have faced over the ages that I do not visit my wrath upon you. For when Bilbo’s last soul string snapped I was ready to smite your mountain to dust, and everyone within. Alas, I have not. But I will watch you, Thorin Oakenshield, for all your life. Do not make me regret my decision.”

Dwalin lifted his eyes and she looked upon Thorin with hard, unyielding eyes. Dwalin shivered. For the first time it occurred to him that Mahal, who’s temper and stubbornness were legendary, might not be the Vala to fear in this divine marriage.

As he looked at her, Yavanna’s eyes found his once more, and she held his gaze, flickering in the sunlight, and when he blinked she was gone.

Dwalin looked down at the Hobbit. He still held her small hand, rubbing his thumb over her palm.

Her breath was slowing.

Her sweet, plump lips had lost the tightness that had drawn her mouth into a thin line these past weeks. Dwalin wished he had kissed those lips more. He would steal a kiss now, but the blooms of daisies had stolen her lips before he dared.

Dwalin had seen many people die. Family, friends, foe. He knelt at their side and watched them turn grey and cold like stone when life left them.

Bilbo was not cold, nor grey, but he knelt at her side nonetheless.

A part of him would leave with her, he knew, and only an odd, incomplete dwarf would remain. A dwarf that would never again be able to look at grey, cold stone without wishing for flowers.

She had loved to hear them sing. Her dwarves. She told him, in this very spot, that it was their song that helped her made up her mind to join their quest. It had stirred something in her that had made her brave.

They would write new songs, news songs about the Hobbit that saved them, and about her bravery and her big heart. But she would not be there to hear them.

Her breath was slowing.

Blue flowers grew over her closed eyes and the thick lashes that lay over her soft cheeks.

Dwalin had just gotten used to the idea of love in his life.

Long stems tugged on her hand in his and he sobbed as he let it go. Grass grew over her palm and daisies sprung up in it.

And she was gone.

Dwalin didn’t know how long he stayed on his knees, feeling his heart shatter into a thousand pieces.

“It is done,” Beorn said suddenly, his voice flat. “Be gone from my lands. And don’t ever come back.”

“Give us a moment to grieve, for pity’s sake,” Thorin objected, his voice rough.

Beorn snarled. “I do not care for your grief, dwarf, and I’ll give you no pity. Go back to your mountain, back to your gold. You’ll forget your grief soon enough.”

“No,” Dwalin replied hoarsely, getting up, steadying himself on shaking legs, “I’ll never forget, and I’ll never stop grieving.” He looked at the mound of flowers and grass one last time. Then he turned and walked away, back to the gate.

**Author's Note:**

> A sad story. Sorry. If it’s any consolation: I cried, too, when writing it. 
> 
> Khuzdul thanks to the Dwarrowscholar.  
> Sharbrugu - Hobbit sgl rude term  
> Zantulbasu - Hobbit sgl common term


End file.
